We Never Change
by The Leaf 180
Summary: After the Cold War, America decides to put the past behind them and reconnect with a former friend, hoping to soothe relations over. And what better way than to go to the beach? It's too bad Russia is a prude and not eager to accept America again.


America pounded noisily on the door, his face set in a grimace, a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Maybe this could be like his secret little détente, like what Nixon did. He opened his mouth to call out a greeting, but immediately clamped it closed as he realized what he was about to say.

_No, not "fucking commie" He's just Russia this time._

So maybe this wasn't his brightest idea. So maybe it was going to be as awkward as hell and maybe it was too soon for this and maybe America should just go home. It's not like Russia was going to open the door.

They were (former, he has to remind himself) enemies and you don't open the door to them even if they want to go to the beach with you. He'd probably suspect a trap. Damn paranoid com-

_Stop that. He's just Russia this time. Russia. Your old friend from the civil war? Remember him?_

Too much has changed. It was too late to go back to the way things once were. Why does he keep trying to convince himself otherwise? Russia wasn't even opening the door for him. He definitely doesn't want to see him, much less talk to him.

This is too sudden. What was he thinking? No, no, he can't turn back now. He's the hero. He has to smooth things over and make everything all peachy because he was the hero and that's what heroes do. Yes. His logic was flawless.

In retrospect, his choice to invite some of his friends, (he conveniently forgot his compassion when he remembered the fact that this would put Russia at an enormous disadvantage) might not have been his smartest move, but he never was the sharpest tool in the shed, nor the brightest bulb in the box…

But this was a bonding session for the two of them right? So if things go wrong America can fall back on people like England or Canada to back him up and… And… The hero has to include everyone right?

Who was he kidding? He'd hate it if Russia had the idea that he could drag along his freakish family too. Though America can see plenty of reasons to leave them at home, the same could go for him…

He knocks on the door again, harder this time, though he has to remind himself to curb his strength if he didn't want to bust the door down. Although at darker times, he might as well have. Does Russia have a peephole? He can't see one. Or maybe he identified his guest through the window. Why won't he give him a chance?

Though if the roles were reversed…

He knocks on the door again to let Russia know that he isn't going home anytime soon.

The door swings open in mid-knock, and America's hand shoots down to his side. He opens his mouth in greeting, but words go unspoken as the Russian takes one look and slams the door in his face.

"H-Hey!" America squawks indignantly at his rudeness, "Don't do that!"

"Go away capitalist pig, I'm not in the mood." Comes the muffled growl from the other side of the door, letting America know that he still had his desired audience.

"Open the door!"

"нет."

"Please?"

"No!"

America huffed, crossing his arms and re-evaluated his plan. He needed to try a different tactic. He could feel his blood pressure rising at the passing of every minute and he knew that arguing was no way to solve their problems and quell their relationship, but everything about the Russian irked him and put him in a bad mood. Was this really the same person that he had come to know? How could someone's personality do such an about-face?

Okay… Now what?

He sighed, resting his head against the cold slab of wood between them, silently praying that the Russian behind him wouldn't spontaneously decide to rip it off the hinges on whim, an act that would send him tumbling forward into an awkward situation.

Maybe he would sense the capitalist germs contaminating his breathing space and eating away at his communist ideals or-

He banged his head on the door periodically in frustration, as if to rid his head of the thoughts, piling up and seeping into one another, no doubt earning himself the amusement of the man behind the barrier.

"Damn you!" he spat. "Here I am, trying to be the better person and you can't even look at me!"

His screech was met in silence, accompanied by an equally frustrated Russian roughly yanking open the door that he was presently leaning on. America's eyes widened in panic as his arms flailed in a windmill motion frantically, before regaining his bearings on the doorframe. He hurried to re-establish his composure, his stunt observed by the un-amused Russian without as much as a raise of an eyebrow in compensation.

America opened his mouth to start again, but Russia interrupted him with a weary voice, laced with warning.

"Yes, I acknowledge that you won the cold war. No, I do not want to hear you gloat about it. Go away."

America huffed bitterly. "That wasn't what I was going to say." He defended himself, although the words came out a bit sharply.

He sighed and forced his shoulders to relax, rolling them to work out the kink and create a more comfortable ambiance. It did little to calm the atmosphere, no thanks to the icy glare he was receiving from the tall man in front of him.

The words next came out in bits, as if hurt the roof of him mouth, like he was eating metal and it was scraping at his cheeks and pointing out all unnatural angles.

"Want to…" He cleared his through and glared down at his shoes. "Wanttogotothebeachwithme?"

Russia blinked, although he appeared unfazed. America felt minuscule seed of hope plant itself in his eyes, germinating as the silence deafened. Russia had not immediately shoot down the offer, nor has he smashed his face into the pavement, which was a good sign, and could on only mean that he was considering it and mulling it over in that thick skull of his so there was still a glimpse of optimism in this precarious situation. A mini victory.

It was soon shot down when Russia shook his head and replied with a monotone "Of course not". The sapling of hope wilted in response and Russia bid him good day, albeit stiffly. The door jerked to a halt before it could close completely, a stubborn American's foot stamped in between, halting the movement abruptly.

He couldn't let him leave now! He had finally gotten some words out of the Russian! They were barely on speaking terms times before and now that they were finally having a civilized conversation America wasn't about to let him slip away so easily. He was better than that. He was the hero!

Russia glared at him. "I'm not going with you."

"Why?" He immediately shot back. "Give me five reasons, and one of them can't be because I'm a capitalist pig."

America winced inwardly as the pressure of the door on his foot increased as Russia once again attempted to close the door on him. Dark violet eyes narrowed and his face contorted into a snarl as he grounded out the reasons that the pesky man in front of him so desired.

"Well," He growled, "No doubt that you'll be dragging along that obnoxious family of yours, and if I recall correctly I'm not welcome among their presence."

"Who ever said that?" America had to bite back a snarky quip in defense of his family's honor, reminding himself that he had asked for this, and it wasn't like he hadn't considered the fact upon inviting them.

"I know your antics." The Russian's eyes were hardened and glinted in hostile as he aggressively jerked the door into America's foot once more. The latter only bit his lip in retaliation, refusing to back down.

"No you don't."

"Try me."

America heaved a calming breath, resisting the urge to scrub his forehead where wrinkles were surely forming. Wrinkles were very unbecoming and he wanted to preserve his appearance for as long as possible.

He wanted to prolong unhealthy wrinkles from appearing, god knows he would hate to have stress lines like England. His sigh hitched as the door was once again jammed into his foot.

"Stop slamming the door on my foot!" He barked impatiently.

"No, I don't think I will."

America forced back a flinch as the door resumed the task of crushing his foot.

"Move your foot then." Russia prompts with a void devoid of all emotions.

America glares into his dead eyes, searching for someone who had long since disappeared, hollow amethyst eyes that he did not recognize met his and America is once again confronted with doubt that maybe they were both just too broken.

Maybe he was not enough to fix this. Maybe he was the one that needed to learn to give up and let go and hope for the best.

But no, this wasn't the Russia that he knew. The Russia he knew was different, and he missed that. This was the alien who was living in the shell of a man he once knew. And America was going to snuff him out no matter what it took.

"You still need to give me four more reasons!" He reminded him stiffly, whilst gnawing on the inside of his lip.

Russia furrowed his brow in a scowl. "You're not my favorite person, and I hate the beach." The door surged forward another inch.

"How could anyone hate the beach?" America grit his teeth in frustration, watching the leather edges of his shoes crinkle and fold under the pressure of the door.

_Maybe you're just a prude-_

"Fuck!" He cursed; his patience failing as anger overruled it. He seized the door with his own iron grip and shoved it off. It was a stalemate between the peeved Russian and the irritated America, the latter wondering if he could bust a hole in the wall if he overpowered his opponent.

Russia remained as stoic as ever, looming passive aggressively over America. The plastic smile that he plastered on when in the eye of the public was nonexistent in a meeting between old enemies.

His expression betrayed nothing of what he thought of the situation, and the eyes of the alien continued to peer deeper into America as they struggled for dominance in their pointless battle, with no personal gain except for an unnoticed boost of their egos. Nothing to gain and nothing to lose, but it was their pride that stood between letting it go.

America wondered for the countless time if he really was strong enough for this meeting, if he was really ready for this because he wanted nothing more than to give up and go home harboring a bruised hero complex and nursing a headache.

His tenacious qualities demanded that he remained rooted to the spot until he showed the Russian just who was boss and if that didn't work, give him a bloody nose and black eye to put him in his place and relieve all of his pent up anger.

They did nothing however, and the diminutive conflict was resolved when Russia ceded, stepping back and allowing America's hand to thrust the door into the wall behind it, feeling the plaster crumble under his destructive hold.

He released his grip the split second he had realized that he had accomplished his task and succeeded in adding a jagged, doorknob shaped hole in the wall that was meant to catch it.

He retreated to his previously vacant position outside the doorway, as he felt small and unwelcome in the cold home, as petty as it may sound. He was already feeling insignificant under the towering frame of the man before him and he knew it was immature to assume that his intrepidness was diminishing just by being in his presence.

He resisted the urge to massage his throbbing foot, choosing instead to wriggle his toes in hopes that they would still respond. A twinge was felt to reassure him that they were still responsive and America's shoulders sagged in mock relief, an act that went unnoticed to the seemingly unperturbed and oblivious Russian who had witnessed the entire ordeal.

"This is just great." Russia muttered dryly, inspecting the new addition to his walls, "You are destructive no matter where you go."

America snorted. "And you weren't just trying to break my toes or anything."

It was Russia's turn to flash a bitter smirk, albeit it was spoiled his humorless eyes.

"Can you leave me alone now?" He asked bluntly, though it came out more as a command. His empty voice sounded flat and disregarded the lightened and almost considerably friendly aura.

"No," America argued, "You still owe me two more reasons."

"Well," Russian mumbled, glowering, "I get sunburn easily."

America nodded in all seriousness, trying not to raise his eyebrows and pucker his lips with all of his will power. He knew it was a blatant lie, but he could see a hint of truth in it. Someone with Russia's pale complexion would not fare long under the blistering summer sun, though it was nothing a bucket load of sunblock couldn't fix.

Was there really insecurity living somewhere within those distant purple eyes? Could someone as solid as Russia know insecurity? America thinks not.

"Alright…" He nodded, already have grown tired of the Russian presence. Was keeping up a simple conversation really so taxing already? How long have they been talking? How long has he been here? Hours? It certainly felt as if he had spent his whole day on the doorstep.

Did he really want to go with Russia? Could he really put in the effort of being around him for a whole day? His simple conversation had dragged out with biting words, leaving him with a damaged foot and a hole in the wall. Maybe it was too soon for this. He should go home. Why hasn't he already? What's keeping him here?

"And let's just say that your little nuclear race stunt has put my economy and myself under the weather." Russia droned tersely, shoulders tense, as if preparing himself for the American's ridicule at his weakness.

America himself, though he hated to admit it, had to swallow resentful insults that sprang up instinctively. He wasn't here to make the Russian feel worse. He was here to mend relations. He wasn't doing a great job currently…

But practice makes perfect right? He could try again another day… far off in the cloudy (unforeseeable) future somewhere.

Upon further scrutiny, America can see a grayish tint the Russian's skin, albeit dusted by a light flush, so unperceivable it was almost invisible. It sagged slightly and hung to his cheekbones, creating a gaunt appearance.

His eyes were slightly bloodshot if America looked hard enough and were circled by exhausted lines and sagging purple bags to vouch for sleepless nights. His hair was slightly unruly, limp and greasy in a curtain over his fatigued eyes.

His ever-present frown might have been in an attempt to ward off a building headache if America decided to read too far into it, although his guess was not far from the truth.

America did know how he could not have seen it sooner, of course, he was around when Reagan was creating the idea of the race, and they both had known what it would mean for Russia's economy, hence the reason they had gone forward with the plan.

Russia had been viewed as the enemy at that time, and frankly, America had been growing quite sick and tired of their war games, and so an end was a huge relief to him. He couldn't care less about his enemy, and he didn't think he ever would. It presently put him in a difficult position, as he was responsible for Russia's condition.

He denied himself the humanity of feeling the uncomfortable pricks of guilt at the confrontation of his actions, because well, he couldn't change it if he tried.

"Ah…" America stalled, his previous fire extinguished. "Maybe another time then…"

Russia narrowed his eyes and nodded stiffly, jerking the door shut, albeit gentler than previous times, easing it closed, and America was left staring at a slab of wood, not feeling better at all.

Maybe détente was meant to fail because there was always something in the way to undo all of his hard work.

Maybe maybe maybe…

* * *

Russia gently massaged his temples, hoping to banish the ever present, pulsing headache that he had become aquatinted with ever since his economy had taken a tumble.

It did nothing to help his blurry vision, and as much as he prided himself with his acting skills, the look of pity that America had given him after he had brought it up made him squirm just in recollection. He really had made his weakness obvious hadn't he? He didn't need any empathy or munificence that America might decide to share with him.

He didn't need his pity. He didn't need anything. He was still strong on his own. He could still survive, even after they all decided to leave him by his lonesome… He would have shaken his head to clear his mind of these weighed thoughts, but he had quickly learned that that action was one sure way to agitate his pounding ache.

So what if his ears were ringing and his eyesight was unreliable and half the time he couldn't focus on America. So what if the America spoke too many words in not enough time in that squeaky little voice of his that grates against his eardrums? It wasn't because of his health.

And he did not back down from that tug-of-war with the door because his aching, heavy arms were protesting. He did retreat because he feared that if he put too much weight on the door that after he had it shut, he would topple to the ground in a heap and he knew that if he sat down he might not get up again.

And he didn't have a light fever either. He was fine. He wasn't throwing a pity-party for himself. And how dare the American come here trying to act as if everything was fine and they both were not recovering from a forty-four year long war (but not quite).

If was his fault that he was in this condition to begin with! It was his fault that everything he had worked so hard to build came crumbling down before his eyes.

Russia shouldn't-couldn't-wouldn't forgive him. He wasn't a charity case. He was Russia. And he was strong (still).

It irked him (one thing on a list of many, and constantly growing) that America decided to act with all the magnanimousness he could muster, as if to flaunt another example of his noble spirit. He was not a fool. And America needed to mind his own business.

So when he happens to pass by his window and see a tightly wound bundle of sunflowers on the stoop, he isn't intrigued at all. And upon further inspection, the get well soon card does not warm his frozen heart to the slightest and it does not make him crack a smile.

Of course not, he would never show such emotions anyway. And he wasn't in denial either.

But some things never change, and two old friends from long ago and far away were no exception.


End file.
